Page 60 of The Cartographer

Allie catches my hand and tugs, dragging my attention away from my electronic ball-and-chain and back to the present. Our present.

He spins me around and then draws me close. Clearly he’s had enough of having anything between us. He keeps dancing, though, laying one hand just above the rise of my ass and keeping ahold of my hand with the other. I raise an eyebrow in silent inquiry:you’re leading?

He shrugs and smiles, his white teeth so damn bright they practically glow, and I can’t find it in me to argue. Why the hell not? Besides, he’s a better, more enthusiastic dancer than I am. It’s not easy at first to give him control of my movements—yielding even in this sweet and silly way is somewhat unnerving—but when I can find it in myself to let go and give this to him, such a small thing, there’s this surge of warmth in my chest. This is fun, really fun. And sexy as hell.

Our wet bodies slick against each other as he shepherds me through the movements, rolling our hips and threading our thighs between one another until our dicks touch and it makes my breath hitch.

What the hell? Am I a teenager again? Even as a teen, maybe especially as a teen, I wasn’t this carefree. I didn’t have this much fun. The world wasn’t a particularly nice place. It still isn’t, but for a few minutes I can forget about all that and enjoy the electric contact of Allie’s body pressed against mine, miming the sex I’ll be having with him in the not-so-distant future.

I reach down to cup his ass and squeeze, and his responding grin is sly and lazy. As if he’s saying,Not yet, Walter. The impatience flares again because dammit I want him now and who is he to tell me no? If he wants to play who can last longer, I will win that game every time.

Even though I’m growing hard against him, I don’t let up. Oh no. I lean in until we’re entwined from knee to chest. Our slight difference in height makes it easy for me to dip my head and kiss his neck. I let my tongue slide over the corded tendons there, taking up the beaded water with a lick.

The taste of him is dulled by the water and it’s frustrating. So I do what any exasperated man would do: Bite. Hard.

In that sweet spot where neck becomes shoulder, there’s a protuberance of muscle I can sink my teeth into and I do. Hard enough to make Allie yelp, but not hard enough to break the skin. I’m going to savor the marks when I’ve got him spread out underneath me, the way he allows me to claim him.

I lick where I’ve bitten to soothe away the sting, and when he’s relaxed against me, I bite again. The marks will overlap with the first ones, and I picture the indents in my head. Plan my next strike as he laughs. It’s not a mocking laugh, though, but an incredulous, surrendering one. How I can glean so much from one simple sound is astounding, but it’s Allie and I’ve studied him and his reactions so well I know them almost as well as I know my own. Better, perhaps, because he actually responds to the stimuli I lay on his body whereas I have to fake mine.

It’s times like now I chafe against the reins that hold me back. No breaking the skin? That’s bullshit. I’d like to taste his blood and make him scream. I wouldn’t want to damage him permanently, though, wound his fine flesh. I wonder how he’d feel about needles. Fine gauge to puncture but not core, a few to start, maybe a five-pointed star on his chest, or a starburst on his biceps…

I forget about threading the steel under layers of his skin and back out again, because in the midst of this, Allie’s gone from vague interest to beseeching, his erection rigid against my pelvis and his chest rising and falling emphatically against mine. Doesn’t take much to get him worked up, magnificent man.

That’s it, I’m over this dancing. I’m not satisfied with his joy anymore. I want his entire being, and there’s only one way I know how to get it. After another bite to his shoulder, another crescent of ownership, I shove him against the slickly tiled wall with hands planted on his pecs. When I’ve got him where I want him, his eyes wide and focused on mine, I crook my fingers so my short nails are digging into his skin and rake them down his chest, leaving streaks as I go. He sucks breath through his teeth, but doesn’t ask me to stop and doesn’t try to escape. Plants his palms against the tiles and breathes through it.

Knowing that’s got to hurt, the strain of obedience showing on his face, it thrills me. So I sink in harder, and when I scrape over his flat brown nipple, he chokes and closes his eyes.

“Open, Hart. I want you to watch what you’re letting me do to you.”

He complies, his lids and lashes blinking open and looking down to watch my fingernails score his flesh. So goddamn satisfying to have this man who could break me in two do something he finds unpleasant on some level because I’ve asked. It makes my blood surge through my body so hard I can hear it pounding in my ears. Makes me want to push him even harder.

As I mark his stomach, his muscles rippling under the strain, I assemble a plan, the pieces fitting together like a shredded treasure map, X marking how exactly to drive Hart out of his goddamn mind.

I take up some shower gel, pouring a generous amount on a loofah, and starting with his massive shoulders, I scrub and polish him from head to toe, talking all the while.

“We’re going to do something a little different today, Hart. Before we start our games, I’m going to clean you out. Have you ever done that before?”

He shakes his head, his nail beds going pale under the strain of being pressed into the wall. The idea clearly makes him nervous.

“There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m not going to hurt you, and you should know what it feels like. I don’t have a strong preference, but you’ll find some people won’t go near your ass without it.”

He flinches, and I can’t quite tell at what. Does he dread the idea of an enema that much or is it something else I’ve said? Doesn’t matter all that much. I can soothe him the same way. I scrub him harder, lifting his arm to get the underside, and this time when he flinches, it’s because he’s ticklish. My hulking lover can be reduced to a pile of squirming giggles with a touch to the right spot.

“Quiet and still, Hart,” I admonish, though I do it with the attempt of a smile pursing my lips because I know damn well that’s impossible for him under these kinds of conditions. He tries, god love him, he really does. But when I skim my fingers over the sparse hair of his armpit, he completely loses it, erupting into squealing peals of laughter.

“You’re impossible.” My chastising glare is met with flushed and hurried apologies between snorts and yelps. He’s so much fun to toy with. Plus, now he’s so busy trying to behave he’s not even thinking about what I’m going to do to him when we’re through.

I’ve been meaning to do this with him for a while now, because it’s something he should experience and I’d rather have him do it with me than with someone else. It can be quite unnerving, and I’ll be studying his every reaction, talking him through it, and easing his way. He’ll learn what it’s supposed to feel like so when he does it again later—with someone else—he’ll know what to expect and be able to tell straight away if something goes wrong.

I only feel a smidge of guilt for taking this pleasure away from someone else. Too freaking bad. There’ve got to be some perks to my peripatetic existence. Popping people’s cherries happens to be one of my favorites.

When I’ve scrubbed down to his feet, taking a tickle break at the backs of his knees, I spend some time on mine, taking him into my mouth to distract him from what’s coming and making an unspoken promise with my lips and tongue and throat that, at the end of it all, he’s not going to be sorry.

Then I turn him to face the wall and take my time scrubbing his back, his shoulder blades, studying the tattoos etched in his skin. They’re actually beautiful in a brutal way, and they make me appreciate him. What he’s been through, what he’s going through, and how he’s really quite wonderful. Not even in spite of it all, but perhaps because of it. I lay a gentle kiss at one of the points of his ink, and it makes him tense, probably because he expects it to be followed by a crack of my hand against his firm ass. Not this time. Right now I want him pliant and soft for me, so I’ll take my time to settle him.

After I’ve rubbed him all over with the loofah, polished him until his skin gleams, I pour some shower gel in my hand and use it like massage oil, slicking it over his back and his shoulders, working my fingers into the tight muscles there. I tell him how gorgeous he is, how lucky I am to be able to use him and do as I please with him, how he thrills me with his obedience.

When he lays his head back against my shoulder and sighs while pressing against me, I know I have him. He’s going to do beautifully. I run my hands over his firm body until he’s putty in my hands, and then I shut off the water and grab towels, telling him to stay where he is and put his hands against the wall.

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